


The Compliance

by writerfan2013



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: But mortifying, I could not resist, Kisses are important, M/M, This is technically pure friendship, Timesheets are important, Too much about plumage, friendship is important, just like the show, wings are important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-09-23 07:36:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20336488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerfan2013/pseuds/writerfan2013
Summary: "An angel's kiss is said to heal all wounds. What a pity, then, that I am not friends with any angels. Of course, there's Crowley. But he hardly counts. And in any case, this is all his fault."Aziraphale and Crowley face trouble when the auditors arrive. Help arrives but brings unexpected consequences. Friendship and love, romance if you squint, as per the show. Let me know what you think! -Sef>>ADDITION> I thought this was done but it wouldn't let me go. So here is one extra chapter. It is unapologetically soppy. Purple prose abounds. What more can I say, I love their celestial relationship. But that's it now. Definitely.





	1. Chapter 1

An angel's kiss is said to heal all wounds. What a pity, then, that I am not friends with any angels.

Of course, there's Crowley. But he hardly counts. And in any case, this is all his fault.

* * *

The Compliance materialised on a Wednesday, in the middle of the week between half-closing and market day. Not much was happening and I was quietly puttering among my books. A bit of light cataloguing does wonders for the heavenly soul, especially if one is already an angel. This might be why, when I mentioned my afternoon plans to my demon acquaintance Crowley, he got a haunted look and shot off in his Bentley to the south coast.

Wednesday half-closing was an antiquated idea, of course, but I liked it. It lent a breathing space to a busy week, and gave me a chance to catch up on administration, never my strong point.

I'd recently acquired a new set of nineteenth-century books, a batch of unmarked boxes from a house clearance, and needed to go through them and assess if they held any value, either as rare editions, or for their intrinsic worth.

The first volume I spread on my desk was dusty and a little damp. Books should smell delicious, and this had a sulphurous tint about it, suggesting it had survived at least one fire. It announced itself as an encyclopedia of cattle diseases - unlikely to fly off the shelves. I set it aside.

The next book smelled of stardust, and love.

I spread the pages. An illustrated book. Colour plates, each separated from the rest by delicate tissue paper. I lifted a page, turned it and suppressed a gasp.

A glossy starling in three poses strutted across the double-page. His plumage gleamed blue, green, purple. The drawing was exquisite. Whoever created these images knew the species intimately, and adored it. My skin tingled. I could almost feel the care radiating off the page. The artist truly loved and admired his subject. Every feather was an offering. Every rampant wing was a prayer to Creation.

I turned the page. The next spread showed a toucan, the next, a parakeet. Parrots of many kinds, an entire chapter of hummingbirds, a suite of lovebirds and finally an osprey.

By the time I closed the book I was breathless.

What a find. This one could go in the window. Such skill would surely attract a buyer, someone who appreciated the artwork as much as I.

I turned eagerly to the next volume. It listed Rabbits of the Steppes. Nicely drawn, but lacking the brilliance of the first book. The illustrator was carrying out his job in a workaday fashion.

Next was a five-part dictionary which contains the pleasing word _comity_. Then more illustrated guides. Horses, deer, cats and the last, a mesmerising book devoted to eagles. Again the artist's talent sprang to life. Every crest, every quill was pinpoint perfection.

The beauty was so intense I became exhausted.

I closed the book and moved to the door for some air.

And at that point, the Compliance smoked into existence on the pavement in front of me, stinking of nebulae and burning a smouldering great hole in the ground.

* * *

Author's note: I hope you like this gentle story of friendship and loyalty. I *may* have scattered some Neil Gaiman references through it. All characters and premises belong, of course, to him and TP. -Sef


	2. Chapter 2

To the untrained observer, the Compliance might look like a giant spike-backed sea urchin, stuffed into a business suit, and given a quick wash and polish so it could pass among hedge-fund managers without notice.

To me, it looked like the end of everything I'd grown to love about being on Earth.

The street was not busy. Passers-by ducked their heads and stepped around the steaming, pinstripe monster without making eye contact. This was London. Nobody wanted trouble.

Yet here, unmistakably, trouble stood.

"Good afternoon," I offered, since it was emitting a stench in my direction. "May I help you?"

It shook out its wobbly, spike-studded throat and spoke. Then it uttered the word I'd been dreading for at least a millennium.

"Paperwork."

* * *

I recognised the Compliance, of course. I'd never before met it, or rather, met one of its representatives, but regardless of its oceanic/ banker form, it was unmistakably one of the creatures employed to maintain Balance.

My side has a vast bureaucratic machine of its own, of course. A clean copybook is practically an angelic requirement, in bookkeeping terms. The accounts note trials and victories, tot up miracles, and generally ensure that the war on Satan stays on track and in budget. And Crowley's superiors keep count, in a brutal, ragtag way, of how their own campaign is proceeding.

For ledger writing, Heaven has the advantage of peace, quiet and decent light. The other place lacks these but makes up for it with threats and eye-watering demonstrations of the consequences of not doing one's timesheets.

Between these two great efforts in accountancy sits the Compliance. It is assumed by everyone that the Compliance answers directly to God. Agents of the Compliance sniff out holes in balance sheets, incorrect expenses claims and above all, absolute separation of angelic and demonic efforts.

Since Armageddon was averted, everyone's new watchword has been Loyalty. Sticking to one's own side with rigid devotion is not only to be admired, but also, to be in evidence at all times. The Compliance were celestial auditors, and now here was one of their number, and it wanted to know why I'd been spending so much time with a demon.

Many thoughts crossed my mind. Firstly, what did they know?

Secondly, what could I get away with telling them?

"Do not lie," ground out the Compliance. "I see your thoughts like elver, struggling in river mud."

All right, fibbing was out. How about the incomplete truth?

"Omission is also lies," said the Compliance before I could think what to omit. Its teeth were curved and inward-leaning like a shark's.

I was running out of options. "Cup of tea?"

It pulled fleshy lids down over slug coloured eyes, then back up again. The effect was disturbing. "You survived hellfire before," it said.

"Ah, well." That little episode of body-swapping. Best left unmentioned.

"This time your punishment must be complete."

* * *

The thing is I am a little lax with my paperwork. I tend to think that as long as the work gets done, the paperwork is a nicety.

Crowley, he's far more administration-oriented than I am. The devil is in the details, as they say, and he enjoys nothing more than an afternoon toying with a spreadsheet, making numbers add up, or other numbers disappear conveniently into a cost centre marked General.

I'm better at the coalface, so to speak. The work itself.

Which is why, for the last little while, I've let Crowley take care of the office sort of stuff, while I have done most of the hands-on requirements. As an arrangement, it's been going quite swimmingly. I have stopped getting those automated Late Timesheet reminders, and he is able to get in some quality time with the latest online accountancy software.

In fact I believe Crowley invented that software. The Devil makes work for idle hands, and he would naturally start with the hands in charge of the credit cards.

"Your ledger. Now."

Oh dear.

As I stood procrastinating, enough in itself to attract a mild reprimand if my other crimes were not so severe - the upstairs telephone rang.

Only one person calls me. I fear only one person knows my number. I am not much for advertising.

I darted upstairs and snatched up the receiver. I sent a small prayer that the Compliance would not think to pick up the extension which sat on my desk in the shop.

"Aziraphale," came the jovial burr down the line. "It's me."

Crowley.

I clutched the receiver. "I can't talk now," I breathed. "Don't come here."

His appearance in the shop would seal my fate. Demons rarely visit uninvited. One has to have given in to temptation (lunch, dinner, endangering one's eternal soul) before they turn up unannounced proffering two glasses and a bottle, as had become Crowley's habit.

Crowley bellowed into my ear, "Is there a storm near you? I can't hear a word you're saying."

"The weather is a little unsettled, yes. For this time of year," I added loudly so the Compliance would think I was chatting about nothing. "It might rain later _listen do not come here, they know, they have sent their agent and it's sitting at my desk thumbing through my books and I just know it's going to find-_"

"It, what do you mean, it. Who. What. Talk to me, angel."

The staircase creaked as a great weight landed upon the first step. I smelled burning.

For a demon, Crowley could be remarkably slow to recognise the presence of evil, even down a telephone line. "Stay away," I hissed, and slammed down the phone.

I hurried downstairs to prevent the Compliance coming up. "Ah, right, How are we getting on?"

"Timesheets," it croaked.

"Ah yes, should be all here." Maybe if I handed them over it would be satisfied. It smelled strongly of pitch and I hoped the reek wouldn't get into my books. I grabbed the ledger from my desk and warily offered it to the Compliance.

It banged the book down on the desk. "Missing," it said. With surprising delicacy it extended a claw and riffled to the start of the year.

I saw numbers and codes on the yellow page, entered in the requisite black ink. I recalled spending a miserable January scratching my deeds onto the heavy parchment pages. January was definitely complete.

But for February ... empty lines.

"I can explain - "

March, April ... The great blank continued. My year stretched across the pages, apparently without activity.

"I really thought I'd done them," I said weakly. Or rather, I'd happily forgotten about them because Crowley seemed to enjoy all that kind of work.

"Funny thing," said the Compliance in a voice like lumps in a sewage filter.

"Oh really, ha ha."

"Funny thing," it repeated.

I had laughed too soon. A nervous habit born of people frequently trying to kill me.

The Compliance said, "Nobody thinks timesheets matter. But they do." It loomed over me.

I blenched. The Compliance's breath smelled like the lavatories in a bean factory, and it was treating me to a full dose. "An administrative oversight," I'm sure, I said. "I'll fill mine in straight away."

"No."

"At your earliest convenience."

"No."

"Um…"

"You have allowed Earth to wallow in its own effluent for months," it said. "Humans create ideas, it is your job, your exact job, to turn those ideas toward God."

"Well, I-"

"Shut up. Your laxity has allowed the other side to forge ahead. They have social media, clear shampoo, Oatibix -"

"Actually I'm fairly sure Oatibix is ours-"

"Shut up. The humans are drowning in filth and looking at this sorry effort-" It tapped the page with a claw the colour of wet plaster - "Heaven can never catch up."

Outside, the sky rumbled. I might have thought it a regular storm, the result of summer heat and humidity... except for the clouds outside my window spelling _Got you_ in Sumerian, in Gabriel's handwriting.

I felt sick. "We can catch up," I said. "Surely it's inevitable. We are... The good guys."

The clouds shifted, dispersed into formless mist.

"Your office says no. They sent me."

I said, "Now wait a minute. You cannot simply call in the auditors. The auditors come in as and when they see fit. Otherwise it's just a, a false reading."

"They called me in," it said and stood, its maw dripping white saliva. "And now you have a choice."

I drew a breath and stood up straight. Choices I could do. There is always a right and wrong, and following what's right usually leads to the correct outcome. "Which is?"

"Destroy the demon Crowley."

Of course. "How?" I asked, cunningly playing for time.

"Holy water has no effect on him," rasped the Compliance. "Hellfire is balm to him. You will have to be inventive."

I nodded. I would ask Crowley for help with falsifying his own death. All he had to do until then was stay out of the Compliance's way.

The Compliance said, "And of course, first, you will have to find him."

The upstairs phone rang, with that unsettling two-five time which is peculiar to British telecommunications.

"Of course," I said.

There followed an awkward silence during which I did not move to answer the phone. The ringing stopped.

"And if I can't, ahem, find him?"

The Compliance hauled itself towards my shop door. "I will punish you."

"Oh. Right."

"Hellfire has no effect on you," it stated. "Holy water is as balm…"

This was familiar ground. I was not inclined to be inventive about my own demise. It had ruled out the obvious choices. What could it do that could possibly hurt me? If Crowley was safe, and hellfire was off the menu, then what, really, could harm me?

It said, "So I will simply torture the humans."

Oh. That would do it.

The Compliance said, "I will be back on Friday to collect the demon."

Upstairs, the phone began to ring again.


	3. Chapter 3

Angels do not sleep much, as a rule, but as I enter my seventh millennium on Earth I find I'm napping more. After the unpleasant visit from the Compliance, I tottered to my little Georgian red-plush couch at the back of the shop, and sat, just for a moment…

I dreamed of the nest, a warm and nurturing home. The nest was lined with white feathers, overlapping like the curved hull of a Viking ship, holding me in place, comforting me while I grew into my true form.

There was no mother bird, nobody to poke food into my starving mouth. I waited, huddling among the warmth of soft feathers.

Then a black beady eye peered over the edge of the nest, followed by a midnight feathered bird. In its red beak it held a wriggling worm, unfathomably disgusting. And although I was not of the same kind as this black-plumed stranger, I took the worm from him, and ate it, and it tasted of protection, and love.

* * *

...I awoke from a sleep born of pure emotional exhaustion. Unangelic sweat touched my brow, and I hastily mopped it away. I struggled to sit up, burdened by an unnatural weight - and found a pigeon on my chest, strutting and holding a rolled-up note in its beak.

_Angel,_ the note read, _you drink too much. When you sober up, stop bleating nonsense into the phone and start fleeing. I've heard rumours that the Compliance are about and I'm not eager to bump into them. Neither are you. Take a holiday. South coast is nice. The Blue Anchor, Brighton. Don't hang about._

The pigeon, relieved of its burden, exploded away in a clatter of wings and ripe grey droppings.

I sat up.

Destroy Crowley.

Watch as an eternal and/or infernal being tortured my humans.

Well, my choice was obvious.

* * *

I immediately set about procrastinating until the last possible moment. After all, what being is keen to meet their end? I spent the week tidying the shop, and considered finishing off the nice little bottle of red that Crowley had brought last time. Mind you, it had been through him at least once already, so perhaps not.

I stroked the pages of my bird book. Perhaps I would not sell this one. I liked it too much. I could keep it.

Instantly I imagined Crowley, sprawled on the Georgian couch in front of me, saying, "What, for the next five minutes until the Compliance turns up to kill you? Yeah, great plan."

"I won't die," I said.

"Oho. So, it's _me_ for the chop, is it? Charming." In my mind's eye he lounged, with something of the raven about him: unreadable eyes - hidden behind glass - sharp angles to the body, a tendency to peck, peck, peck until the truth came out of you.

"I didn't say that."

"I never had you down as a torturer," he said. He shifted on the couch, stretching his shoulders, and I heard a rustle, like steel passing across black silk.

"Of course I'm not."

"So what's your plan? How can you save the humans and save me?"

"I don't know," I said truthfully, and the vision of Crowley, couch, and unseen wings vanished.

* * *

Every Compliance is a brutal mix of angel and demon. Strictly two angels, one fallen. In this way true impartiality is maintained. It gives the Compliance power over both sides, under the watchful eye of the Almighty. It can do whatever must be done.

I was under no illusion as to what must be done with me. I had failed in my duty, and endangered humanity with my laxity. I must be ended.

That monstrous figure … containing a melange of some beings like me and Crowley. Unthinkable. Eternity with your best friend is not all it's cracked up to be. I should know.

Nonetheless this creation myth offered useful information. A Compliance, terrifying though it is, held only as much combined power as one and a bit angels. Plus the remainder of demon of course, but good will always outweigh evil.

So I could fight it. I doubted that I could defeat it, but I could certainly reduce its power such that it could harm neither Crowley, nor the humans. I would overcome the angelic element - not for nothing was I once a gate guardian - and that would be enough to send it on its way.

\- I hoped. In any case, it would be drained. Perhaps dead, though I would need to explore some very sinister corners of the internet to establish that, and that was more Crowley's area.

Between the two of us, Crowley and I could almost certainly defeat the Compliance. But working together would cement the accusation of betrayal. At present only I was under suspicion. If I left Crowley out of it, I knew he would find a way to wriggle off scot-free.

Which is why I had not returned his calls. Or his emails, or letters. He sent further pigeons, which I ignored.

This morning he even sent a beautiful peach-faced lovebird, but I stroked its coraline back, listened to its song, and set it free.


	4. Chapter 4

Friday dawned like most Fridays: a sense of anticipation about the coming weekend, mingled with the knowledge of everything that must be done before then. For many people this might involve finishing off enough work to knock off early and go to the pub. For me, it entailed finishing off an administrative monster and going to Hell.

I spent the morning dithering and trying not to hope that Crowley turned up. I couldn’t eat a bite at lunch. I briefly considered filling in my timesheets, but at this stage, what would be the point?

At midday, the sky dimmed. The time had come. 

Thunder over Soho warned me that the Compliance had updated Heaven on the situation, and that Heaven was not impressed. Many people dismiss weather as mere atmospheric disturbance, but for those of us in the know, thunder means someone has upset the balance of Good and Evil. Similarly, a solitary shaft of sunshine in a grey sky means new hope, and sudden, torrential rain indicates a broken heart. In this, Victorian novelists and Hollywood screenwriters have it absolutely right.

I locked up my shop and followed the sound of thunder to Greenwich Park. This was promising: had the Compliance come to me, there was a chance Crowley might show up and interfere. Out here, high on the hill overlooking London, if I employed a little smoke and mirror magic, nobody would notice the battle, and Crowey would not find me.

I put some thought into my tactics. For show, I had brought some paperwork with me, purporting to be my ledger, but actually an armful of the nineteenth-century books.

I chose a spot far from any tourists, and as the autumnal sky turned the colour of last week’s soup, I sent up a brief prayer, requesting forgiveness, and an internal enquiry into how come Gabriel was allowed to summon a supposedly impartial auditor.

The brown air shimmered, and the urchin-financier burst into existence on the yellowed grass in front of me.

This was it. 

I faced the Compliance with a trembling heart. It was truly monstrous, a thing of pure ugliness. Yet I could defeat it, or at least, prevent it from harming the humans. It was hard to understand why the Almighty would allow such a creature, would make such a thing, but then, understanding is not required. Only obedience is required.

  
  


I knew I had not been entirely obedient.

A memory flashed across my mind, of champagne and caviar under the sunlit arches of the Colosseum, a tray of delicacies served to me by a man dressed as a centurion, while Crowley stalked around poking at shadows and clicking his fingers whenever I ran out of bubbles. Or another time, walking to the ocean at the end of an Aegean lane, sardines grilled to silvery perfection on the quayside as the waves sparkled in the background and Crowley magicked plastic forks into starfish on the harbour wall. Midnight in a graveyard, I working a couple of minor curses before quickly cancelling them out with miracles, and Crowley laughing because I am not very good at deliberate badness.

  
  


I cast these sentimental memories aside. “I have the paperwork,” I lied, holding up my books.

“You do not,” said the Compliance in a voice like rotting seaweed.

“Take them,” I said.

“I will destroy the humans,” it remarked. “Or you can bring me the demon.”

This was odd. As much as Heaven dislikes a demon, it is not the concern of the Compliance to wipe them out. Its job is only to ensure galactic balance, and accurate timesheets.

There was no time to question, however. The monster drew itself up to its full height - about that of a double decker bus - and took one squelching step nearer. It raised its knobbly appendages - they were too disgusting to call arms - and aimed them at the city. Foul curses formed in its throat. I detected the start of flood, fire and damnation - and pain, a great deal of pain.

It stretched its slimy mouth wide in a sickening grimace of triumph. Evil spewed forth and struck the city with a sound that could not be heard, only felt. My heart juddered as misery engulfed the innocents of London: mothers and fathers bending over cots, children eating secret chips for lunch, men and women everywhere at work or study or play. Anguish rose in a silent scream, tearing at my heart. All over London, love was extinguished.

“Stop,” I command the Compliance as it lumbered towards me. “Or I will make you stop.”

It belched out a laugh. “You cannot.” 

I darted between the Compliance and the city. “I, I bet I can.”

“Try.”

“I  _ will  _ try.”

Thus far our exchange was at the level of scornful ten year olds. Now I had to back up my threat with action.

The monster curled its claws in satisfaction and turned back to me. “You will be ended, and so will Crowley.”

I steeled myself. It would be fine. It was half angel. I had the strength to at least half defeat it. That would be enough, surely. 

Whatever happened now, I must stop the Compliance torturing the humans any further. Without love, all life withers and dies. No ledger was worth the kind of pain this monster was inflicting.

All around, humans crouched on the ground, clutching their chests, felled by the monster’s curse. Nobody was looking at me. 

I drew a breath, and unfurled my wings. I might be only one being, and a flawed, outcast one at that, but I was still an angel. And I was  _ right _ .

I stepped towards the thing, nearer than I had been even in my shop, and a wave of nausea washed through me. I staggered.

The Compliance's aura was - entirely evil. There was no glimmer of goodness about it.

Well, of course, even angels can be a little bad. But at our core is love, and light.

This thing had neither. Not even a hint of kindness, of mercy, of care.

Too late I understood that this creature was not the Compliance at all. It didn’t care about timesheets, or cosmic balance. It was some hideous tool of the underworld, sent to destroy me, Crowley or preferably both.

  
  


And that meant... it held no angelic element. I did not have the capacity to defeat it. Or even half defeat it.

  
  


Oh dear.


	5. Chapter 5

The creature struck me across the head and I fell inelegantly to the stony ground. The thing laughed with a sound like sewage barrelling down a drain. “Die, angel. Your body will die and your soul will be rejected by Heaven  _ and  _ Hell. You will be nothing.”

It smashed its foot on me several times, I do not know how many. I wrapped my arms about my head and lay still as it stamped on me. The humans are safe, I thought. Crowley is safe. And when he realises what this creature truly is, he will know how to stop it. He has a demon’s natural capacity for evil, he will know what to do.

  
  


The world around me turned pink with human suffering, and what must be my own blood. 

The monster continued to batter me, but even though it was absolutely ruining my good coat, I sought strength and sent out feeble miracles to heal London, between the blows. 

Above me, thin sunlight tried to peep between the clouds. There was time, there was hope.

My injuries were great, but it did not matter. What mattered was that here was a pigeon, a plump, rainbow-plumed bird, pecking its way among some dropped chips on the ground a few feet away, unperturbed by the monstrosity kicking my head in nearby.

“Bird,” I called, lifting my head from the gravel. My throat was dry, or maybe broken. “Tell… Crowley.”

The pigeon paused in its destruction of a chip and cocked its head. 

I was running out of time. “Tell him. Protect the humans. After I am gone.”

The pigeon let out a soft coo, and took off.

I let my head drop. The message would fly on ash-grey wings to Crowley, down at Brighton, and although I expected him to be a little sad, I was confident he would do as I asked.

To the monster I called, “Do it. End me. I can withstand anything.”

It was a terrible lie, but if the thing turned all its hateful efforts to me, then the humans would survive. They would return to their work or play, a little confused and sore, but in good health. They would simply think they’d eaten a very bad sandwich.

“My pleasure,” said the monster, and raised its limbs once more.

Only a heavenly miracle could save me now. And given I had just tittle-tattled on Gabriel to a higher authority, that is, to Internal Affairs, it seemed unlikely that he would hurry down to bestow his angelic blessing.

In a last, desperate effort, I picked up my books and hurled them towards the monster. It spluttered, and coughed, and stumbled a little as a set of leather-bound tomes struck it in the face. It stopped sending pain to the humans, and stood confused as an explosion of pages fluttered around its bulbous, bloody head.

A page drifted down to me, side to side, gently like a feather. It was the picture of the cheeky starling, unrepentant, tilting its head at the reader and showing off its glorious black wing.

I smiled, and closed my eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

A flash of lightning jolted me back to consciousness. Pain swam all around, but this time, it did not belong to the humans, but to me. That was something.

I opened my eyes and saw the Compliance, or whatever it was, looming over my prone body. Waiting for me to die. It would not have long.

"Oi. Ugface. Over here."

That was Crowley's voice. It couldn't be.

"I'm talking to you, pinbrain."

That was definitely Crowley. And he sounded very cross.

The monster's shadow left me and I blearily saw it move towards the sound of the demon's voice.

Lightning flashed again, this time in a single dagger of searing heat and light, a molten blade which struck the Compliance full across the head.

I opened my encrusted eyes wide as the monster split in two and toppled, oozing yellow pus. It flopped to the ground where a third lightning bolt took care of its remains, leaving only a scorch mark and the smell of burnt eggs.

Crowley skittered up to me, elbows flailing, and careered to a halt on his knees beside me.

I had to smile. I had told him not to come, and yet here he was. It was typical demonic disobedience, but I could not pretend I wasn't glad to see him.

Crowley's coat, usually the colour of a moonless night, was covered in ash and his flaming red hair stuck out all around his head. His mouth fell open as he took in my injured state. "Angel, angel, what have you done?"

"Only what was necessary." I gestured at the wreckage of the monster.

"But you, your body, you'll die."

"I've been discorporated before. It worked out all right then."

"Only because we had the son of Satan on hand to grant you a new body. For Heaven's sake Aziraphale, what were you thinking?" He grabbed my hand and bent his head over it.

"Are you weeping?" I was astonished.

"Don't be ridiculous."

Nonetheless, I saw tears. "Please don't, dear friend."

"What have you done, you bloody idiot." His dark glasses hid his eyes, but the first drops of rain fell from a sorrowful sky and mingled on our hands.

I said, "I had to do it. You were safe, that was the main thing, and humanity. I realised too late that it wasn't the real Compliance, that I wasn't strong enough alone..."

"So you thought you'd try anyway."

"I thought... I could absorb its hatred... take the edge off, so to speak." I managed a small smile. "I was right."

"You fool. You utter, utter fool."

"Don't cry, please. I can't bear to see you cry."

"I'm not." Now the ground was wet, and the rain fell harder.

I tried to lift my hand to his cheek, but he batted me away.

"I've got to - do something!" He tore off his dark glasses, and screwed his features into an agonized scowl.

I whispered, "Heaven won't take me. Hell certainly won't. Soon, I will be ether, and then, nothing. It's all right, Crowley."

He shook his head. "Just - keep still." He leaned over me, and pressed his mouth to my forehead.

I murmured my surprise, his name, and closed my eyes, as prepared as one can be, for the end.

But the end never came.

* * *

A shiver of cold ran through me, fresh and cool like an alpine lake. I had expected, what, a sizzle at his touch, demonic fire? But that was the pain talking. I have on occasions touched my adversary, and neither of us was burned. But it never felt like this, like refreshment, renewal.

As the thought entered my head, I opened my eyes and saw Crowley's face close to mine. His lips moved, but no sound emerged.

The pain had taken a bit of a toll, and so I had trouble understanding what he was saying, or rather, miming. Shards of agony arrowed through my being. Corresponding icicles pierced me, chasing down my torture, quashing the damage.

This did not feel like disintegration, like vanishing into the neverwhere. It felt entirely corporeal. And it hurt.

Perhaps I was too far gone to speak, but still I could look, and I looked at him, my dear friend, my ally. The only person in heaven or earth who truly knew me.

And as I looked, I understood his speech, and his distress. He was praying, repeating two words, over and again.

"Please work. Please work."


	7. Chapter 7

I awoke in pain. But I awoke, which was surprising, and probably good.

If I had imagined that Crowley would carry me away to some comfortable place of healing with hot water, efficient nurses and clean towels, I was wrong.

This place had black slate walls, the mysterious gleaming luminescence of a cavern a mile underground, and many potted rubber plants which quivered in some breeze I could not detect.

In a niche to one side, two figures wrought in marble engaged in an act of furious intimacy. Were they fighting? The statue was familiar and unsettling.

The bed I lay on was terribly uncomfortable, and equipped with an anglepoise lamp and a pencil sharpener.

The entire place was as dark as Hades.

Gradually I understood that wherever I was, it belonged to Crowley. And that I was supine on his desk.

"Ah. You're awake. Better?"

Crowley breezed in, his suit now immaculate and his hair tamed. He gave the rubber plants a stern look as he passed.

I found my voice. "Not dead, so I suppose I am a little improved."

"Excellent. Fancy getting up?" He thrust out his hand and made to haul me to my feet.

I flinched as pain pierced me. My shoulders, my wings, all was in excruciating discomfort. "I. Ah. Not quite ready to-"

Then I blacked out.

Next time I opened my eyes I was in a bed, or rather, on a black velvet settee in a different, but equally gloomy, black slate room. This one had no suggestive sculptures, only a selection of terrified houseplants.

"Don't worry," I said, "his bark is much worse than his bite."

I didn't know plants could turn pale, but Crowley's plants positively wilted when I mentioned his bite. A spider plant fainted.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I mean, I'm sure he cares for you very much."

"Are you talking to my plants?" Crowley sauntered in. He wore no glasses; this was Crowley At Home.

"They seem a bit, ah, nervous." A collection of more fragile things I had never encountered.

"Good. Grow better."

"I'm sure I'm doing my best."

"Not you, them. Well. And you." He cast his gaze over me. "Are you, any better then?"

"Ah." One does not like to disappoint. Everything hurt, everywhere. "I, ah."

"Angels are not supposed to tell fibs," said Crowley.

"Demons are not supposed to bring angels into their sinful haunts, and yet here I am." The discomfort made me tetchy.

He laughed, and shrugged. "It was nearest. So what's wrong?"

I shut my mouth. I had a fair idea of the problem, but had not had the leisure or privacy to be sure.

"Come on Aziraphale, spit it out. Whatever you need, I can get it. I know people, I can help." He strolled around the room, giving each plant a threatening stare as he passed.

I wanted very much to rise, take a long bath, and be certain of my situation. But my brain was still fuzzy, and anyway, my symptoms would soon become hard to miss.

Forcing my body into a sitting position I noticed some changes. "My coat!"

Although all signs of the battle had vanished from my attire, I was now dressed in my second best coat. It's identical to my best coat, of course, but does not hold the sentimental value.

Crowley wrinkled his nose. "The other one was too far gone to mend. Riddled with miracles. Fell apart as soon as I touched it." He did not say sorry, because demons do not apologise.

I sighed, but in truth the coat was the least of my worries. Firstly, there was the searing agony. And secondly -

I shucked my sleeves, adjusting my shirt cuffs. Softness like duck down touched my wrist. A great sorrowful pain gripped my back, and the velvet sofa was speckled with a fine white fluff. I gritted my teeth. I must not weep.

"Angel," said Crowley warningly. But he looked worried.

"Oh all right." I waited until Crowley stood, swaying as always to his own private music, beside my black sofa, and said, "My feathers are falling out."

He stilled. "That's not good."

"No." An angel loses its feathers only before death, in other words, never.

"How many? A couple. Three. Four?"

I could not meet his eye. After all, I had brought this fate upon myself. He had only tried to help. "All of them."

His mouth moved in horror, but for a moment he said nothing. His gaze travelled over me, and over the snowdrift-sofa. Then, "Let me take a look."

"I'd rather you didn't. Much rather."

"So is this what that... thing, did to you then, or something else?" He danced away from me and stood wincing and biting his lip like a guilty child.

"What else could it be?"

"Nothing." Yet still he twitched and fidgeted.

I said, "I don't think there's anything you can do."

"Oh yes there is."

"What?"

"Nothing. Go to sleep."

"I don't really-"

He snapped his fingers and I slept.


	8. Chapter 8

I dreamed of the nest, but this time I was not alone. Crowley was there, leaning back against the downy lining, wings extended, wearing a languorous smile.

My pain was almost gone.

"Check your feathers, angel," he said. He gave his own a little shake. They were shockingly black against the dove white of the nest.

I tentatively reached around to feel my shoulder blades. My wings were furled up in their hidden position; but they were there, and they were fledged, or almost so. Every quill was tender and every blade hurt to the touch, but they were growing back. "It's a miracle!"

"Looks like it." He grinned. His eyes glinted with their familiar old hellfire.

I am not much for expansive gestures, but I would have embraced him, if a sudden agony in my wings had not stopped me. I gasped, and fell back against the side of the nest. "I'm much better," I mumbled through a fog of pain. "Much."

He frowned, and snapped his fingers.

"I am already asleep," I reminded him.

"Oh yes. Dammit. Oh well. I'm kind of getting the hang of this now anyway." He sighed, shrugged, then gripped the sides of my face and planted on my cheek a big wet sloppy kiss.

"What are you-" I awoke with a start, to see Crowley's flat, and Crowley, close to me. "What in Hell -?"

"_Now_ sleep," he said, and snapped his fingers.

* * *

He was absent for a week after that. I wandered around the dark flat, still weak, but not so weak as to ignore the refrigerator stuffed with five-star sushi and rare champagne. I ate, and drank, and flexed my regrown feathers.

On the seventh day, at eleven pm, Crowley came back, holding a book. His dark glasses, and his swagger, were in full force.

I too was feeling more myself, although concerned about his vanishing act. "Where have you been? What have you been doing?"

Crowley sprawled on the black velvet settee. "Ah. Yes. Well, turns out I was completely right about the Compliance. You remember I rang you? Well, they _are_ onto us. One of them collared me in the street." He saw my dubious expression. "The real Compliance. I checked. Asked to see its identity card, unlike some other people I could mention." He raised his eyebrows at me.

"Gloating is very unbecoming, you know." I gave him a very firm stare.

"Anyway, I told it I had to fetch my records. Dashed off. Found you. Now here I am."

Alarm rippled through me. "You mean the real Compliance is coming?"

"And by the by, I gave my people a call, asked them to go through channels to talk to your people…" He waved a hand in circular motion. "Yada yada. The upshot is, your request for an internal investigation has caused a whopping great stink. Everyone is denying everything. Beelzebub says not her. Gabriel is doing his butter wouldn't melt thing. Everyone wants to know who sent the mysterious monster, and how come we two outlaws are still alive." He smirked.

"The Compliance is coming," I repeated.

"Yup. Any minute now."

"Then we must-"

"Calm down, angel. I'll leave the paperwork on your desk for it to find."

"But-" But, my paperwork was in no state to be examined by a real auditor. Nothing after January!

"Here." He tossed a book to me. I caught it awkwardly, sports never having been my forte, and saw it was my own ledger of angelic doings. I turned to the time entry section and found it filled with careful accounts of my miraculous deeds, signed and dated, all in Crowley's tight, slanted handwriting. Rows of angular script described my supposed days.

I turned to him, beaming. "You did my timesheets for me!"

He scowled.

"Oh, thank you. You know how I loathe it."

"We'll put it on your desk later. Better drop you off too, probably not a good idea for you to be discovered lurking here."

"No indeed."

He began a grandiose shrug - and winced.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing. How's your wings?"

"Uncomfortable. But better. Thank you."

There was a pause. I think each of us knew the other was lying.


	9. Chapter 9

Crowley sprang up and walked about the room. He said, "By the way. What have you done to my plants?"

Oops. "Nothing."

"They're blooming."

I glanced around his living room. Glorious tropical petals burst from every plant. Pink, purple, violet, yellow, deep coral ... Stamen dangled tantalisingly, petals vibrated with happiness.

Crowley pointed a slender finger at me. "I leave you for five minutes and you do this."

I said, "It must be ...summer?"

"They're non-flowering plants, angel."

"Ah."

"They're happy. Look at them. You've gone and made them happy."

I said nothing. I was hardly going to apologise for happiness.

"How're the wings?" he asked again, but more pointedly.

I sighed. It would have to be the truth. One does not interfere with a friend's plantlife and expect to get away with it. "Much better, thank you. Just one tricky feather that shows no sign of growing back."

"Hmmn." He ripped off his dark glasses and tossed them aside.

"How are you? I ought to thank you for everything you've done."

This detail had been worrying me rather. What, exactly, _had_he done? I should be dead. Yet here I was, in a demon's flower-filled boudoir.

"Forget about it. You up to walking?"

"I think so."

"Then let's go. Stretch our legs." He glared at me, eyes blazing with infernal fire, then plucked a fresh pair of glasses from his inner coat pocket and put them on.

"You seem cross. What's wrong? Can I help?"

"No."

"I trust it isn't something I've done."

"No."

"Crowley. Are you all right?"

"Yeah."

* * *

I hurried to keep up with him as he strode through the moonlit park. The moon in London is a rare thing, and its light usually drowns in a flood of orange streetlights and hypnotic neon advertisements, the American gods of modern life. Tonight, though, the moon shone strongly, silvering the iron filigree around the bandstand. A few wispy clouds drifted in front of it now and again, but there was definite moonlight happening, even here in the middle of the city. It was almost beautiful, and with only a tiny miracle, it was.

"Was that you?" demanded Crowley waspishly.

"It's safer for people to see their way home."

"Huh."

I could not keep up with him. Honestly, if he'd wanted a solitary walk he could have simply left me behind.

He flounced across the dewy lawn with his trademark careless grace. His shoulders were hunched and sulky. His entire demeanour spoke of affront.

"Crowley, wait." I broke into an undignified trot and moved to tap him on the shoulder.

He veered away as if I were about to stab him. "Get off."

That's when I knew something was wrong. Demons are not known for their sunny outlook, but this level of huff was unusual even for a fallen angel. "Stop," I commanded. "Stand still and turn around."

He snorted. "You watch too much television."

"I have no idea what you mean. Do it."

He turned to face me, rolling his eyes dramatically.

"Tell me what's wrong or I will …" I could not immediately think of a threat. It does not come naturally to one made of light and love.

He waited like a teenager who's been told not to paint his bedroom black.

I sighed, and put away thoughts of blackmail. "I only want to help," I said. "Let me help you, please. We are ... friends. You helped me, after all."

"That's exactly the problem." He shook himself as if trying to dislodge a cloud of flies. "Helping you. That's what started it."

"You've helped me dozens of times!" Belatedly I dropped my voice. "I mean, an independent observer would note that by sheer coincidence, our efforts occasionally cancel each other out..."

He waved that off. "-It's not that. It's when I... healed you."

"Yes, how in Heaven did you manage that? One moment I was utterly on the brink of oblivion, the next…" My memory sparked: Crowley, leaning tenderly over me - "Oh! You kissed me!"

"Shut up."

"Twice!" That dream of the nest. It had only been half-dream. The pain had diminished right afterwards.

"Uh, yeah, twice." He squirmed, and I blushingly remembered all the finger-snapping.

I said, "But that shouldn't work. You're not, I mean you were, but surely, sixty centuries of demonic habits have drained you of all…"

"Ugh. Please stop talking now."

I couldn't. "I knew it! I knew you were good, underneath all that slouching and lounging and turning your collar up. You're still an angel, Crowley."

"Shut it!" He grabbed me by the lapels in the middle of an ornamental lawn and glowered at me.

I didn't care. I was too happy to mind a little roughing up. Crowley, restored, or partly restored, as an angel! It made me forget about the discomfort in my wings. I gave them a little shuffle, discreetly of course, and saw pain flit across my friend's face. He let go of me and stood drooping, his arms at his sides.

This time I didn't ask. I took him by the shoulders and turned him round. "Nobody's here," I whispered.

His head bowed. Slowly he unfolded his wings.

Raven feathers rustled into a canopy over my head. Like all God's creatures, he was admirable, even if this majestic black plumage denoted his fallen nature. But wait - "What's this?"

"Stop it."

I reached up and reverently touched the very tip of his left-hand flight. My fingers thrilled to the silken texture of the quill. Heavenly goodness permeated from the contact, straight to my very soul. "Crowley -"

Among the glossy black feathers fanned in a perfect midnight sheaf, sprouted a single feather which was different - which instead of black, glowed a beautiful moonlight white.


	10. Chapter 10

He shoved his feathers back into hiding.

"I understand," I breathed. "You healed me. This is your reward."

"It's rewarding to have a freak feather?"

"It's a sign." I took his hands. "A sign that you are still, in some small way, an angel. Oh Crowley, I can't tell you how happy this makes me."

"You don't need to go on about it."

"How can I not? It's wonderful, wonderful news." I beamed at him and, by coincidence of course, the moon emerged fully from behind a wispy cloud. A bright shaft of steely light struck us.

My goodness but it is a great thing to have a friend. Crowley is, and remains, the only person I can call by that name. Who else understands my situation? Who else has to deal with a recalcitrant head office and their endless paperwork? Who else knows the eternal struggle of duty and temptation?

The thought had barely formed in my mind when I saw my demon, truly saw him. I had always thought him magnificent, a perfectly-formed instrument of the Almighty. His darkness had never disguised his beauty. Now I saw something different. A soul, as lost and as full of longing as my own.

My face must have shown my amazement, for in response his eyes widened. He gave a slight shake of his head. "Aziraphale…"

Was it ego to think that I might be responsible for that single white feather? That his care for me might be the start of his rehabilitation? Was it reprehensible to wish to do more?

I said, "Crowley. If the feather bothers you. I can heal it."

He recoiled. "You mean-?"

"Like you healed me. Yes. If you like."

He tried to look indifferent.

"Right then." I rubbed my hands. "I'll just do that, then."

It is strangely difficult to approach one's longtime friend for a simple kiss, especially when that friend is fixing you with a dark, unreadable gaze.

I blinked a few times, drew a deep breath, and leaned towards him. He instinctively flinched, I did too. No wonder Crowley had required me to be unconscious while he gave the blessing. Only by an awkward lunge did I manage to brush my lips against his cheek. His wings rustled, and I glimpsed iridescent black feathers, spreading and reclosing, as I withdrew.

"There," I said, somewhat breathless.

"Right. Cheers."

"Has it worked?" Despite the moonlight, the space between us was still a little obscure. "Did you feel anything?"

"Nope."

"Oh."

Crowley said, "Heigh ho and all that, worth a try, can't win 'em all." I could see him resisting the impulse to wipe at his cheek. I could hardly blame him, for I too was wrigglingly discomfited. But why?

A strange sensation surged through me as I wondered. Specifically it surged to my right wingtip - an odd, quivering itch like striking one's funnybone.

I shrugged away the sensation, and my disappointment. I had failed to heal him. Perhaps my angelic powers were still recovering. But no matter. He had saved me, and perhaps himself in the process, and I was so grateful for that.

In a wild impulse I gathered him into a hug. He was too spiky to hug me back, but my heart knew his affection, and he must be certain of mine. "My dear friend," I said, and we both felt the rumble as Heaven and Hell acknowledged this illicit, illegal cooperation.

"Now you've done it," he said, but fondly.

Thunder rolled around the night sky.

"So I have," I said. "Oh well."

He laughed. "Let go of me, you daft fool."

I did. And my farthest flight feathers twinged again with that jittery, painless pain. I exclaimed.

Instantly Crowley was alert, as if Beelzebub had appeared, or more terrifyingly, Gabriel. "What is it? What's wrong?"

I cannot lie worth a damn and so did not even attempt a feeble Nothing.

Crowley narrowed his eyes. "Let me take a look at those wings." He gestured at my shoulders.

"Oh I say. In public?"

"Where else? A sleazy hotel off the Old Kent Road?"

That struck me as very unsafe idea. "No, here is fine."

He lifted his chin.

I hesitated.

"Spread 'em," commanded Crowley.

My wings were better, much better, but it still hurt as I unfurled them. "Ow."

"Don't be a wuss." Less timid than I, he ran his fingers along the overlaps of my outstretched wings, his palm passing over my feathers in a ripple of susurration. "Definitely heavenly," he muttered, prowling around me, circling like a falcon's territorial spirals.

"What did you say? Oh!" His fingers found a tender spot, and I shivered.

"Nothing. Oho, what's this?" Moonlight flickered off his dark glasses. He took them off and scratched his head.

"What, what is it, I can't see."

"Thought you said you'd lost a feather."

"Yes. The last one on the right - it's gone. It hasn't grown back." My flying days were a thousand years behind me, but all the same, one likes to keep oneself presentable.

"Oh, it's grown back all right," said Crowley in a peculiar tone.

"What, where?"

He danced around to face me. Fire crackled in his eyes. "It's black," he breathed. "The new feather. It's black."


	11. Chapter 11

I abruptly folded my wings.

We stared at each other.

"Well," said Crowley, "well, well, well."

"You're one tiny bit nearer to being an angel," I said. "And I. Dear lord."

He clapped me on the shoulder. "Don't fret, old thing. We're even." He cocked his head at me, and we continued across the park, this time at a companionable pace.

I said, "But what does it mean?"

"It means, the thunder's stopped. Upstairs, and downstairs, must have given up. After all, we now have the absolutely correct amount of black and white feathers." He winked.

"Between us."

"Between us. Suits you, by the way."

That ought not to have pleased me but it did. "Likewise."

"Home?"

"My home," I said firmly. "We still have to drop off my timesheets, and I think I need my own bed."

"Fair enough."

We strolled amicably in the direction of Soho.

Crowley adopted a highly irritating smugness. "Sooo, what was it that tipped you towards demon, I wonder?"

A very good question, and one I was not eager to answer. "Just the cumulative effect of six thousand years on Earth, I expect. Six thousand years of fraternising with you."

"Yes, that's probably it." He was smirking.

"Oh shush."

"I'm saying nothing. Nothing about temptation."

"If you are implying that I could suffer from lu-" . I couldn't bring myself to utter the word. "As you know, that is impossible for an angel. We do not have the capacity."

"I could hardly blame you. I mean, I've got all this going on." He gave his wings a little shake, even though by now we were in the street. The street!

"Crowley," I hissed. "Don't!"

"Too much for you eh? Can't handle the wingage?"

"You have very fine wings," I said with dignity. "That's all I will allow."

He sniggered.

"Oh shush." I marched ahead with an aloof stride, but he caught up.

"It's very common," he remarked. "Wing fetish. Veeery common."

"I. Do. Not -"

"I'm kidding! I know you're as pure as the driven snow, or at least, ninety-nine percent pure." He hung his arm about my shoulders. "I wouldn't be friends with you otherwise."

"And I know you're at least one percent true angel. Probably more. After all, you healed me."

"Less said about that, the better. We don't want any more, ah, thunder."

"Agreed."

My shop loomed ahead of us, warm and welcoming. "I assume you're coming in," I said.

"Thought you'd never ask."

"You would just barge in anyway if you wanted to."

"True. That is true."

I moved around my cosy shop, switching on lamps and sweeping aside papers from my little Georgian couch. I laid out the ledger and fetched my best crystal chalices, and a fruity little Pompeiian amphora I'd kept for quite some time.

"Yes, wine, what a marvellous idea. One of ours, you know. What did your lot come up with while we were inventing wine?" Crowley demanded, following me around the shop like a shadow. A tall, immaculately-dressed shadow with one pure white feather in its wing.

"I believe we were busy with the whole of creation."

He pounced on my one remaining bird book, lying open on my desk at the Golden Eagle centre spread, and I flicked his inquisitive fingers away. "Lovely plumage," he said.

He was trying to make me blush and I absolutely refused. After all, I had just spent a week in his flat surrounded by dimly-lit sculpture. I was not the only one who enjoyed Fine Art. I said, "Those colour plates are over a hundred years old. They are to be, to be viewed and admired, not manhandled." I treated him to a very stern look, and I believe my point was made.

He made a face at me. "Yeah, yeah, but what has your side ever come up with that's as important as wine?"

"Grapes." I poured two glasses of a rather potent Roman vintage and gave them to him. "The side table, if you don't mind."

Crowley set down the glasses as instructed. "Fair point." He twiddled his fingers and the amphora obediently rolled into a handy refill position. "You feeling better then?"

"Completely."

"You don't need me to … check again?"

"No, thank you." I plumped the red velvet cushions on the couch.

"Pity," said Crowley, and spread himself, and his left wing, across the space I had cleared.

I contemplated him for a moment or two.

Then I snapped my fingers and locked the doors. "Well," I said. "Perhaps it would be best to be sure."

His eyes lit up.

"Just this once."

"Oh yes. Of course. No question. Absolutely." He attempted an earnest expression.

"Well, budge up then."

He chuckled, and made a little room on the couch beside him.

I sat, carefully not touching the glorious black wing that lay tantalizingly along the back of the couch.

I sipped the wine. It was fine, very fine, and almost as old as we were. Only a miracle could have maintained it in such perfect condition for so long, and at this moment I could not recall whose miracle it had been - Crowley's, or my own.

I smiled at Crowley and tilted my chalice towards his. From the corner of my left eye I could just see that one white feather. The rest were silken black.

We drank.

Crowley frowned as I maintained a very proper distance. "Sometimes I don't understand you, angel."

It was my turn to smirk. I tapped him smartly on the knee. "Good."

And we laughed.

THE END

Author's note: That's it, I hope you enjoyed reading this - it was great fun to write. There are 7 Neil Gaiman references in this story which I put in on a whim. I guess I am most pleased with discovering that Coraline is an actual word, and that writing in Aziraphale's prim voice is sheer joy. Anyway I hope you enjoyed this short fic, please let me know what you thought! -Sef

ADDITION: I thought this was done but it wouldn't let me go. So now there is one extra chapter. It is unapologetically soppy. Purple prose abounds. What more can I say, I love their celestial relationship. But that's it now. Definitely. 


	12. Chapter 12

I left my hand on Crowley's knee in a companionable way, and he threw his head back and stared at my ceiling. After a while he said, "Are we checking, or what?"

"Of course."

"Right then." His head snapped up. "I'll-"

"I'll do you," I said. "First."

"Oh."

"If you don't mind."

"No. Next, fine, whatever." He glugged some wine. "Do it. Go for it. You know."

"Well then," I said, watching this fidgeting. "Spread your ..." I could not quite complete that sentence. He smirked, and extended his left wing fully along the back of the couch. "My my."

Without the dark glasses, his amber eyes seemed unusually vulnerable. I have sometimes suspected that is his reason for wearing them. A snake is often feared, but most snakes are shy creatures, unwilling to bite until they have to.

I smiled reassuringly at him, and tried not to look as if I was about to don rubber gloves. There is not very much touching in the life of an angel, and so to embark upon deliberate contact is, perhaps not momentous, but noteworthy. Especially wings. Wings are an angel's most important organ, a symbol of love and blessedness. Humans, it must be noted, do not have wings. Wings are... sacred, in the celestial order, and to each angel. And demon.

I too sipped wine, set down the glass with a tiny noise, and laid my hand on Crowley's left wing, close to his shoulder. Moving slowly I touched each feather, feeling that tingle of angelic contact, moving farther from his body at each step. Before I reached the first joint his eyes were closed. 

I realised I had been holding my breath. My fingers were tingling. I relaxed, and proceeded, carefully stroking each quill until I was nearly at the farthest stretch of his flight.

"Angel, stop."

I froze.

Of course, in beings not moved by animal urges, sensation is not concentrated where a human might expect. The deepest contact between an angelic being and the strands of love which stream through the universe, occurs at the wingtip. For a demon - Well. What contact with heavenly blessing does a demon have? How strange, how painful might that be?

"Wine," said Crowley, and eased his wing inwards, away from my hands.

"Good thought."

We sat either end of the couch, sipping, and ignoring each other. I fixed my gaze on my desk, where our friendship was written in hour after hour of meticulous timesheet.

Crowley sprang up and began pacing around, twirling his glass so that antique alcohol sloshed over the sides. 

There was no point asking if he was all right. Clearly he was unsettled, and clearly he would deny it if asked. Instead I closed my own eyes and allowed the memory of taut black plumage to travel over my hands. How wonderful to share in another's connection with the eternal, to be permitted that pleasure, and know that one had provided that satisfaction in turn.

Crowley said, "You'll spill your drink."

"You're hardly in a position to lecture."

"Huh."

Behind my eyes I reviewed each midnight quill. Each one glinted like a full moon above a calm ocean, or ice crystals on obsidian: every fibre strong and taut, a harp to my touch.

I felt Crowley's hand on mine, and jumped, opening my eyes. 

"Top up," he said, removing my empty glass and handing me a slender flute.

This was no Roman wine, but something modern and sparkling, chilly, the colour of a harvest morning. Bubbles foamed on my tongue in a chorus of applause. "That's good," I said, "what is it?"

"Stolen. Best not to ask."

"Crowley."

"Let's just say Marie Antoinette won't miss it. Drink up, it's your turn." He took the glass from me and raised one eyebrow.

As long as I was the one doing, I could justify this evening in my mind. I was healing ... or checking ... or helping a sinner turn toward good. But to lie still, my right wing out, while Crowley approached, his eyes flickering - Well, that seemed very much like _being done to_, and there's no justification for that in the terms of my work.

"Don't worry," he said, shucking his sleeves, "I'm not going to hurt you."

"As if you could," I said faintly.

He splayed his hands, and placed his ten fingertips precisely on the very tips of my middle flight feathers. I admit I gasped.

Demonic energy is often thick and sluggish, a reflection of their stunted nature. But Crowley's energy burned bright, a searing mirror, a sunset flame. Of course, he had been one of the brightest before the fall, and remained their top operative afterwards. Why else send him to the Garden?

To feel that purple energy blazing through my feathers, dappled with champagne - The impression was striking, and intense.

I may have grown weak, weak enough to lie supine while every feather shivered under the attention of hot, dark light from the earliest days of the universe. I may have closed my eyes and murmured his name. I cannot say.

"Seems fine," he said, as nebulae exploded behind my eyes. "No more black feathers," while the satin energy of the farthest reaches of space rippled through my soul, tangling with the ivory ribbons of heavenly creation.

"Right." My voice seemed not my own. I was distracted in distant galaxies, in inward sensation. I was lost, I was upside down with it.

"Only this one -" and his fingers reached my last feather, the one which betrayed my connection to the Other Side, to him. I expected an explosion of crackling energy, but instead, everything softened, and the only thing passing from demonic touch to angelic wing was ... care.

My eyes opened. I was quick enough to catch the question in his glance before he bent his head, ostentatiously concentrating.

"I won't look," I said. I shut my eyes again, and there, once more, was that strange softness, a black spark, a tiny remnant, I thought, of what he once was: a maker, a creator of worlds, each as beautiful and bright as he had once been. And now he brimmed with this energy, blazed with it, allowed this touch, shared it with me.

He whirled away and I heard the clink of bottleneck on glass.

I sat up. "Thank you," I said. "For checking."

He grunted.

I regained my champagne. "Wonderful," I said. He scowled, which might be demon for blushing.

"May I," I said.

He shrugged. _No_ was in his clenched jaw, but I saw _Yes_ in his ophidian gold eyes.

"Wine first, then."

We drank quite a lot of wine, until the strangeness eased. Of course, angel friends do groom each other in heaven, and in olden days I too passed many a pleasant hour in wing care with my dearest companions. Crowley was not one of them. He was too high above me. 

Rumour has it that the fallen continue to preen. It is not a thing one enquires about. I could not imagine Crowley abandoning personal care any more than I would. So what we had done was, at some level, natural angelic behaviour.

"Stop it," said Crowley. 

"What?"

"I can see you at it. Trying to work out how you can catalogue this little escapade into a nice, explicable event you can put in your diary. So stop."

"I-"

"When did someone else last check your wings?"

"I hardly think-"

"In heaven, right?" He prodded me in the wishbone. 

"Well. It must have been..."

"Yeah. Because down here, it's not a thing." He whirled away, gesturing at all the human things I surrounded myself with.

"You're upset."

"I'm-" He drew a long breath. "Forget it."

"I'll get more wine."

I took my time over an alcoholic miracle, and when I came back, he was lounging again, sprawling, as was his wont, all over my couch. Better. "Now," I said firmly. He glanced up, surprised. "Where was I."

I pressed one hand on his shoulder, letting him know he was going to remain still, while the other hand counted out my progress along his wing until I reached where I'd stopped before.

"Aziraphale," he muttered.

"I would never harm you."

"I know that! Just, you don't have to. Your immortal soul and so on and et cetera."

"I think my immortal soul is in far more danger from your fingers on my feathers than the other way round."

That provoked a laugh. "Is that an admission?"

"No. Keep still."

I worked steadily but gently, treating each quill as its own being, its own blackness. Some were space and emptiness, some the caverns leading to the earth core, some were sea beds lost deep in undiscovered trenches. All were beautiful, in their way. God makes nothing wrong and Crowley, as Crowley, was perfection.

At last there was only one feather left to smooth, the white wingtip. Crowley was immobile, expressionless, dark glasses suddenly back in place. His left hand rested on his thigh in practised nonchalance. 

There was no point in announcing myself. I must simply do it. Whatever wonders, dark and glittering, had travelled from his soul to mine, I was surely returning them in some way. I was only a lesser angel in the celestial order but I was certain I had that power. 

The feather shone white and new, an unturned page in a freshly-bound book. I drew my fingers across it, this sign of small redemption, and wondered. "What do you see?"

Crowley wiped the back of his hand over his face and said nothing. 

I knew the answer then, and it was obvious. _Heaven_.

My work complete, I returned near to him and sat beside him, within the scope of his outstretched wing. Without looking at him I picked up his hand and brought it to my lips, and found wetness on his knuckles.

I set his hand back in place, and we sat, not speaking.

Abruptly he stood, and sauntered towards the door. "I'm going home."

"You'll be back tomorrow?"

He shrugged. "Might be. Got a lot on. People to see, foul schemes to play, despicable deeds to do, the usual." 

"Well, I'll be here. Ring me if the Compliance visits you first."

He waved a hand.

I stood, and although my corporeal eyes watched him leave, in my mind I saw not his carefully elegant form weaving towards the door, but a bright black figure, like the flare around an eclipse, a brilliant silhouette so dark it burned the eye. And streaming backwards from his soul to mine, came a midnight ribbon of celestial promise, tangled with one of dove-white, tying me to him, and him to me, and binding us always together.

"See you tomorrow," I said softly, and although he only shrugged, I was certain, as certain as Heaven itself, of his answer.


End file.
